I had occasion early this morning to chat face to face with a White female smoker of retirement age.
I had a long overdue issue to address, and made my way to do it at what might be described as the last minute. This had left me in the unenviable position of operating an electric scooter during a December hale storm in New Hampshire, pre-dawn.
As a brief aside, my electric scooter has many benefits, most notably as a conversation starter. When I found myself lacking Internet access in the year 2020, I was deprived of a very nice car as a consequence. That upset me for a time, but the chats I’ve had since might well make up for the loss.
The woman was appropriately nervous to see me approach her at the hour I did, given the neighborhood. It wasn’t always like that in New Hampshire, but it makes perfect sense today. Our conversation began as I departed the other building and she realized I was not a threat to her safety.
The woman had remarked about the unpleasantness I must be facing, as she smoked what was likely her 5th cigarette outside her apartment building, which I gathered was something of a retirement community. She said something to the effect that she hoped I was carrying a firearm to be traveling by these means in this city in the dark.
Having been wrongly deprived of the means to do so lawfully, this triggered, no pun in intended, an emotional reaction in me. I looked at her and saw that she was fearful of a place I moved to 11 years ago precisely to escape these thoughts.
This had followed, serendipitously, my having had occasion earlier that morning to listen to a piece I had released some time ago titled “Beauty Revisited”, wherein I discussed at some length the sadness of witnessing New Hampshire’s decline. I heard my own voice simultaneously with hers in my mind. I saw the lines in her face convey all that her words failed to mention.
Doing my best to appeal to a global audience, I don’t catch much local news. I came to know this morning that this is likely for the best. She remarked that in the last six months, there have been many rapes in my city, and this elderly smoker feared she might well be next if she dared to leave her porch after dark.
It is a terrible shame I was not carrying a recorder with me at the time. I suppose I could have used my phone, but in any case I’m sure she’d have found it offputting had I began recording, whatever the equipment involved.
I disclosed to her that I was not long out of prison, and that the circumstances which found me there, my offense at something said of a woman I cared deeply for, had left me deprived of my carry permit, but that I was more than capable of defending myself.
The fury I felt at hearing her words, and seeing the fear in her eyes, left me in a position where, I might well have gone looking for the opportunity to test that capacity.
Our conversation about the intentional effort to change this state’s demographics went on for nearly an hour as the ice pellets pummeled the ground nearby. She was no extremist, but her age had not yet taken her sight. She knew what was going on. Everyone in this city does. They’re doing this to us on purpose out of an anti-White ethnic animus, and the only thing anyone finds curious at this point is why they hate us so much.
I thought better than to try and explain that under the circumstances, but invited her to check out my podcasts, and as I departed I thanked her for the opportunity to hear her speak of her concerns.
This city has some odd traffic patterns which can be confusing at times. The municipal government has a deal with some company to make electric scooters publicly available using a smartphone app, so their use is quite common in this area. I wanted to make sure I operated mine lawfully of course, so when I obtained it I had spoken to an officer at the local police department, who explained to me that I was to obey the same laws as a bicycle essentially. Drive on the right side of the road, use the bike lanes where available, don’t go the wrong way down a one way street, most pertinently to our story.
Where I found myself at that hour there is what I suppose could be described as something of a plaza. As a consequence of this unusual circumstance, there are several blocks where one cannot, by vehicle, reach Elm Street, where most of the shopping and restaurants and bars are located. I needed to cross Elm Street to get home, and I was not used to being on this side of Elm Street. From what I see in my neighborhood, I tend to think I live on the wrong side of the proverbial tracks, though there is no train here, but as the ice bounced off my face while I tried to find my way in the dark, I began to wonder if things may be worse this side of Elm Street. That seemed a reasonable assumption, since the woman mentioned to me there was a methadone clinic mere feet from her front door.
I was thrown off by several blocks all going one way, the same way, opposite of the direction I needed to go. Consequent of the confusion this caused, I traversed a parking lot, and in that parking lot I saw two young girls wearing pink. Soaked though they were from the weather, I was sure the two of them together weighed less than I. Fresh off chatting with this elderly smoker who feared she might be raped feet from her own porch, I damn near grabbed them both and asked them why their parents shouldn’t be in prison for allowing this, assuming they were not already there for pimping them out, which I don’t suppose is an entirely safe assumption.
Intuition told me my probation officer would disagree with this approach, so I did my best to ignore it. I’m forced to do too much of this in recent months.
Among those things I’ve had to ignore were a series of domestic disputes in which it was clear to me by the sounds penetrating a thin shared wall, that a black man, high on drugs, was beating his White girlfriend.
The first time I heard it, mere days out of prison myself, I plotted the man’s murder in my mind. By the third, I blamed the woman, and this of course caused me to hold myself in greater contempt than I had for the two of them combined. Quite the monster must I be to think such a thing. Had I only not been a coward when I heard this the first time, she’d be just fine, I told myself, knowing full well the opposite was true.
I remark from time to time that I am grateful to have suffered in life. It borders on a catch phrase that I say “there is opportunity in suffering” and this has never been more true than as I have witnessed what has become of this city. I like to think I am in touch with what these people are going through, and whether or not that is accurate, I know that I at least feel their pain. This brings me nothing that could be described as comfort, but I am very grateful for it.
I don’t think most political actors have this benefit. Whether or not this elderly smoker feels safe is less important than per capita crime rates and comparisons with comparable districts. The fear of a retired woman that she might be raped by drug addicts can be offset by the good they tell themselves they have done by saving those drug addicts from overdose with cheap and abundant Narcan.
The woman told me that she was planning on leaving the city, and though I remarked to her “they are eventually going to leave us with nowhere to run” I knew this was a sound choice for her. She could surely head North and avoid the worst of it all in a more rural area, passing of natural causes before they get around to leveling whatever mountain she opts to reside upon and turning the area into low income housing and methadone clinics.
I imagine the people who run this city view this mathematically. The loss of one retiree is a small price to pay for an increase in overall population through refugee resettlement and the subsidies that accompany this. I do not know all the details of the mechanics, but it is very clear to me that Massachusetts is dumping their drug addicts in this city, and the federal government is releasing prisoners here who were not New Hampshire residents at the time of their arrests. It is as unambiguous as any government program ever has been in its effort to change the demographics of this once nearly all White state.
They went so far as to brag about this in the New York Times several years ago. I archived and bookmarked the piece for its staggering audacity. The July of 2018 headline reads “New Hampshire, 94 Percent White, Asks: How Do You Diversify a Whole State?“.
It seems they’ve found a way. Several, as it were. Refugee resettlement. Abundant services for out of state drug addicts. Becoming home to federal prisoners down on their luck. These are just a few of the methods deployed.
Southern New Hampshire University is very near to me also. I remember on a trip to Walmart in September, noticing that the store was busier than usual, and near all of these extra shoppers were black. I asked my friend who drove me there what the hell was going on, and she informed me that it likely had to do with the kids arriving for college.
But I have known more than a few black people in my 43 years. They do not aspire, generally, to migrate to colder climates. If the University has a dramatic overrepresentation of black students, this is because they have gone to some expense making this so.
I am aware that to notice this makes me some kind of dreaded racist, but I was somewhat relieved to know that this retiree saw it near as clear as I did.
Should she and I end up the same side of the afterlife, I’ll tolerate the heat if I must, but I have a difficult time imagining a Just God would punish this woman.
I’m another story, obviously, but I’ll consider my sins quite forgiven if I bump into her after I die.
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